


Through Sleet and Snow

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Military Police AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time, though, he considers not saying anything. He could just let this be, let Marco transfer into the Garrison, not say a word and let them go their separate ways. Maybe it’s time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Sleet and Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoneGrimDark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoneGrimDark/gifts).



> Hi arachnidgallow! I decided to go with your Military Police AU, so I hope you like what I came up with! No sads! c: Happy holidays! <3

In the three years since Trost was nearly destroyed, the mail services have slowed down.

Not that it was ever particularly easy to send correspondence like letters or packages to begin with, but it was possible, especially with the number of young men and women who routinely entered the military. For people like Marco Bodt, it was either farm or fight, and he chose the latter since it offered far more benefits.

The snow crunches under Marco’s neatly polished boots as he walks through the cobblestoned streets, and he gets a few interested glances from passersby. It’s not frequent that the Military Police enter Trost unless on official business or for pleasure. He offers them polite nods, friendly smiles, and although he initially receives wary glances in return, he also gets a grudging polite nod. 

In some ways, Marco wishes he hadn’t learned so much about the power of smiles from “handsome” (someone else’s description for him) young men—his mother had taught him that a polite smile at strangers was good manners, but inside the Interior, everything is about intent. 

_Simplicity is for simpletons; seduction is for smart guys, like us._

Jean’s words, with an appropriate smirk, on the anniversary of their second year together in the Military Police. That night, he’d gotten so drunk at the tavern they’d been at that he barely made it to his early morning watch. 

The strangers go back to their business as Marco finally reaches his destination. A cheerful bell rings above the door as he enters the miniscule shop that functions all at once as a haphazard post office, shoemaker, and locksmith, hoping someone will be there even though it’s the winter solstice.

Sure enough, the clerk behind the counter gives him a nod, motioning him over. He doesn’t look impressed by the unicorn emblazoned on Marco’s jacket, though. 

“What can I do for you, sonny?” the man asks, eyeing Marco critically.

Marco blinks at the informal way he’s being spoken to—not that he minds, it’s just rare—and then he glances at the wall behind the elderly clerk.

There’s a horseshoe nailed to the wood wall he knows is for luck, but there’s also a few sketches of a few men (one of them undoubtedly the clerk) in what are obviously Garrison uniforms. 

Before Marco can study any of the other fascinating memorabilia on the wall, though, the clerk clears his throat impatiently.

“Can I help you or not?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. Then, he laughs a little, his voice all grit as he says without a trace of hesitance, “I know you MP boys like to waste time, but I haven’t got all day.”

“Uh,” Marco stammers, “I have a package I need to send to Jinae.”

“Jinae?!” the man exclaims, throwing his hands up. “Next you’re going to tell me you want it to get there before the new year!”

Marco smiles sheepishly, shaking his head. “Of course not,” he replies politely. “I know it takes at least a month, if there’s even room in the next satchel out.”

The man studies him warily for a moment, an expression of surprise that he fails to hide, and he raises an eyebrow.

“Not so cocky like the rest of those little shits, huh?” he asks. “You from Jinae?”

“Yeah,” Marco nods, smiling a little—the sincere one, not the simpering kind—and he can’t resist asking. “You were in the Garrison?”

“Sure was,” the man replies, immediately eager to tell of his achievements. “For twenty years. I didn’t have the grades as a cadet to make the Military Police.” He crosses his arms, giving Marco a critical up and down, and scoffs. “Ends up that maybe it was a good thing.”

“How so?” Marco asks curiously, setting down the small box he’s been carrying under his arm.

“If you’re not a little pissant who drinks yourself into a stupor, you should know, since you don’t seem to be that type.” The clerk shifts, watching as Marco places the parcel gingerly on the battered wooden counter.

Marco gives a wry laugh and shrug, neither confirming nor denying, but he does have another look at the sketches tacked to the wall.

“I might be transferring to the Garrison soon, actually,” he remarks, causing the man’s eyebrows to raise in surprise. “Was it all right, overall?”

“Yeah, overall,” the man confirms, not expressing his obvious shock at hearing Marco’s potential decrease in prestige. “At least you’re not getting eaten, right?”

He turns away to retrieve the small scale behind him, not waiting for an answer, as Marco rifles around in his inner pocket for credits.

Incidentally, he feels the envelope he’s been carrying around with him for some time, and takes it out to reach his money.

“That’s an official Military Police envelope,” the clerk says suddenly, causing Marco to look up in surprise.

He’s staring at the wayward envelope lying on the counter, and Marco immediately seizes it and drags it back toward him. “I wasn’t intending to send that,” he says defensively, frowning a little.

“Well, no shit, son,” the ex-Garrison soldier exclaims with a roll of his eyes. “That’s not the kind of the thing you send in the post.”

“How much for the package?”

The clerk doesn’t initially pursue his line of questioning, and puts Marco’s small parcel on the scale, eyeing the weight before speaking. “Five credits to Jinae. It’ll take one month. You got anything in here that’s going to get me in trouble?”

Marco laughs lightly, laying down the credits on the counter and tucking the envelope back into his jacket. “Just tea, for my sisters. They don’t have the same things out there that they do in the Interior.”

There’s a short silence as the clerk writes “BODT” in capital letters over the town and then turns to deposit it into a satchel that’s almost full. 

“I haven’t gotten them signed yet,” Marco says suddenly, catching the man’s eyes in an unintentionally intense gaze. “They’re transfer papers...”

“To the Garrison?” the man asks, and suddenly, he unexpectedly seems sympathetic. “Don’t blame you one bit.” He shakes his head, crossing his arms again across his wrinkled white shirt. “Takes more than one good man to save the Military Police from itself, much less the world, if that’s actually what you are.” 

They look at each other for a moment, seeming to share an unspoken understanding, and Marco straightens up. “I suppose so,” he remarks. “But I’m not a kid anymore. No one can save the world on their own.”

“So, what’s stopping you from getting them papers signed?” the clerk asks. “Sounds to me like you don’t really want to give it up yet.”

“What’s stopping me?” Marco echoes thoughtfully, before he pats the outside of his heavy wool jacket where the envelope is tucked in the inner pocket. He chooses not to answer, and gives the man a nod.

The bell tinkles again as he leaves the shop, and he pulls his jacket more tightly around himself as the wind picks up. 

It’s quiet outside as he makes his way down the slushy street, jumping to the side quickly to avoid the splash of a passing horse clip-clopping through the ice and muck. Most of the storefronts are open and busy, hardly ever closing for holidays, but civilians are at home, celebrating with their loved ones. It’s the usual hustle and bustle of the commercial area that Marco has become accustomed to seeing when he comes here once a year.

Jean’s house is only one street away, but he’s walking more slowly than he usually does. In fact, it seems as if the snow gets deeper every year, regardless of what the weather is actually doing.

Marco pats the documents stowed away in the inner pocket of his jacket, as if to confirm they’re still there. 

It might be time, finally, to pay his commanding officer a visit.

= = =

Jean’s mother doesn’t like the brandy.

The first year Jean came home for the day of winter solstice, he’d brought Marco Bodt and a bottle of expensive brandy. It was the same kind his mother had kept in the house for the entire time he was growing up. Every new year, she’d pour a glass for herself, a glass of milk for Jean, and they’d toast each other as though he was a grown-up. It was one of his favorite traditions.

That first year, his mother had been thrilled, and even Marco had a glass of the expensive alcohol in the spirit of the season. They’d eaten roasted chestnuts, and Marco had told stories about his family, who at the time, were simply too far to go see with the strict roster the Military Police had assigned the new low-ranking officers. The holiday was a single day, and so, Marco had agreed to Jean’s offer to go with him.

It had been one of Jean’s favorite days in recent memory.

But this year—a few holidays later now—Jean’s mother is quiet. Worried.

“You look tired, Jeanbo,” she’d remarked as soon as he walked in the door, and he’d rolled his eyes. That nickname was the worst, even though he knew telling her not to say it was pointless.

“I was on watch all night,” was the only reply he could think to come up with.

Of course, while that was partly true, the late evening spent smoking and gambling two nights prior didn’t help. But it seemed worth it, since the money he won was what had bought the special body of brandy.

Now, his mother is sitting in front of the woodstove with her glass untouched, staring into it. She doesn’t look sad, exactly, but there’s something she’s not saying; something weighing on her mind. It’s very unlike Mrs. Kirschstein to not speak her mind, much like her son.

“You’re going to get sick,” Jean says impatiently, retrieving a shawl which he drapes over his mother’s shoulders. “It’s cold outside.”

She looks up at him with a stern expression, but pulls the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “You should be taking better care of yourself before you start complaining about me.”

He sets his jaw, but knows not to argue, especially when she’s obviously got other things on her mind she’s not saying. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to get into it, especially not with Marco on the way here. 

Marco still comes every year, but it seems like he turns up a little later every time.

“Why don’t you get a glass for Marco,” she suggests, as if reading Jean’s thoughts. “I’m sure he’ll be frozen to the bone when he gets here.”

Jean doesn’t actually think that’s a bad idea, and he acquiesces, retrieving one of the “fancy” glasses his mother keeps in the small hutch. They’re made of thick glass that have since turned slightly foggy, but they have hand-painted flowers on them, and remain cheerful, full of fond memories.

He picks the one with bold, orange zinnias painted in an elaborate pattern just below the rim; it’s the one that Marco had first dubbed “cheerful,” especially since his family happened to grow them in their yard.

Jean jumps as there’s sudden knock at the door, and he almost spills the brandy he’s emptying into the glass.

His mother is on her feet immediately, and she throws open the door enthusiastically.

“Marco!” she exclaims warmly with a big smile, ignoring the melted snowflakes on Marco’s shoulders and throwing her arms around him.

“Mrs. Kirschstein,” he says, smiling and returning the embrace, “thank you for having me over again this year.”

“You never have to thank me!” she says with a huge smile, immediately turning to make sure Jean is paying attention. “Jean already got out your favorite glass.”

Jean immediately feels a little silly, flushing slightly, but he meets Marco’s eyes; they’re widened slightly, and there’s something about how surprised he looks by the fact that Jean would remember that stings.

“Here,” Jean mutters, picking up the glass and holding it out as Marco shrugs his coat off. “It’s the good stuff.”

Marco chuckles a little as he lets Jean’s mother take the heavy jacket and hang it up, and the smile he gives is warm.

No one smiles like Marco does, probably just as sincere as the day he was old enough to know the meaning of the gesture.

And Jean can’t help but smile back, welcoming the opportunity to forget the fact that they haven’t seen each other for a month now, even though their quarters are in the same hallway.

The holidays tend to get rowdy around the Military Police barracks, especially behind closed doors late at night.

Once Marco takes a sip of the brandy, eyebrows shooting up at its potency, Jean’s mother takes a sip too and laughs.

For once, Jean opts not to drink; he also doesn’t protest when his mother offers him a glass of milk. The truth is, at certain times of year, milk is almost as rare as brandy.

The fire crackles pleasantly, and Jean studies Marco as he speaks, making that type of polite small talk he’s so good at while still seeming genuinely interested.

He’s got light stubble on his chin, he’s very broad and tall now, topping out at just over six feet. Jean can still see the kid there though with those ridiculous freckles that never fade; they make him look five years younger than he really is. But there’s no mistaking how he carries himself confidently, ODM gear impeccably buckled and placed, obviously still used and practiced even if they never see actual action.

“So, any promotions on the horizon?” Jean mother smiles, and he can’t help but note the question is obviously not directed at him.

“Oh,” Marco replies, staring down into his empty glass with a hesitant expression that immediately draws Jean’s attention, “not really, but I’m...”

He stops and clears his throat. “What?” Jean prompts, his eyes slightly wider. He can feel his heartbeat pick up with strange anticipation.

“I’m considering a transfer,” Marco remarks lightly with a slight shrug. 

Jean’s mother doesn’t quite seem to understand what that really means, and she nods encouragingly. “Well, Marco,” she says with a nod, “I’m sure you’ll do what’s best, and you certainly deserve a promotion. Good luck.”

“A _what_?” Jean demands, trying to stop his mouth from hanging open. “Where? The Survey Corps? Are you on a suicide mission?”

“No,” Marco replies curtly, and much to Jean’s absolute chagrin, he doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by the dramatic outburst. “Possibly the Garrison.”

They just stare at each other, and the moment only grows worse as the full gravity of Marco’s statement sinks in.

If he moves to the Garrison, Jean will probably never see him. Worse yet, no one ever willingly drops rank in the military unless they’re desperate.

It occurs to Jean, right then, staring into his best friend’s dark eyes that look more tired than he first noticed, that Marco is unhappy. 

For people like Marco, unhappiness doesn’t come from feeling sorry for oneself, but from disillusionment. In some ways, it really isn’t a surprise; it’s just that Jean has refused to think about the possibility for a while now.

Suddenly, Jean’s mother chimes in unexpectedly. “Boys,” she says, rising to stand by the counter, “I was going to make roasted chestnuts, but I just realized I don’t have any. Could you go down to the corner to the baker and see if they have any extra?”

They both blink, breaking eye contact, and turn to stare at Jean’s mother.

“I think you both could use some air,” she adds sternly, and neither one of them are brave enough to argue.

They don’t really talk except for Jean to mumble where they’re headed as they throw on coats and scarves, and there’s a gust of cold air as the door opens.

They walk in silence side by side through the empty, quiet street, not nearly as busy as the one with the shops on it. There’s the occasional horse that clops by or child running from door to door, no doubt en-route to the homes of family and friends, and then there’s the unlikely sight of two young men, wearing the King’s most elite insignia.

Jean can feel the tension building, and he knows Marco is almost waiting for it.

For the first time, though, he considers not saying anything. He could just let this be, let Marco transfer into the Garrison, not say a word and let them go their separate ways. Maybe it’s time.

“It’ll probably be on the first day of the new year,” Marco says calmly, breaking the silence. “Just so you know.”

“You’re not transferring into the Garrison,” Jean immediately retorts, stopping in his tracks to scowl at Marco and fold his arms defensively over his chest. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“It’s my choice.” Marco sets that jaw in his way that makes Jean see red.

But it’s not like he can argue—it _is_ Marco’s choice—and the worst part is that he understands the logic.

A memory springs to mind unbidden.

_“Are you really going to just let that happen?” Marco’s voice is tearful in the dark, and Jean feels anger well up in his chest. “You’re just going to watch them accept bribes?”_

_“It’s just the way things are done, Marco! Stop being such a prude.”_

_It was their first week there together; it was the last time Marco ever questioned Jean openly._

They stand there in silence under the eaves of the roof, watching as the snow starts to fall a little harder, seeming to settle a thin coating of silence over the street.

This is when they’re supposed to keep walking, go to the bakery to retrieve the chestnuts, head back to the Kirschstein household, and drink until nightfall. There’ll be laughter, stories of memories, maybe a few awkward silences, but Jean has developed a talent for resigning himself to things that he can’t control, that can’t be avoided. 

Saying goodbye, much like death, is unavoidable sometimes.

But if there’s ever been something that Jean never lost in the last three years of seeing the ugliness of corruption—even participating in it—it’s his nerve. 

His voice comes out in a puff of white air as he asks, “Do you remember when we used to talk about what we’d do in the Military Police?”

The question seems to hit Marco like a sucker punch, and he turns sharply to stare at Jean, his cheeks flushed red from the cold and his mouth hanging open slightly in surprise.

Jean is fascinated by Marco’s mouth, even though the last time he was in close proximity to those lips was when they were cadets in an awkward, fumbling mess of kisses. But he finds himself still staring; both because they’re Marco’s lips, but also because when Marco speaks, people listen.

Marco smiles a little, swallows hard, and studies Jean’s face when nothing else is said. 

“It’s funny,” he says after a moment, not answering directly and looking up into the grey sky as flakes stick to his dark lashes, “how the world itself can warp the way you look at it.” He looks over, eyes falling to meet Jean’s again. “Even when you’re surrounded by the people you love.”

Jean inhales sharply; he hates how he’s still so susceptible to pieces of the past, how it reminds him of what might have been, _who_ he might have been.

Nonetheless, Marco’s right. Marco is usually right. 

Jean looks away, shoving his hands in the pockets of his impeccably pressed jacket. “I’m out of cigarettes,” he finally offers, frowning slightly, “otherwise, I’d offer you one, since it sounds like it’d do you good. What are you going on about anyway?” He expects to find an irritated expression on Marco’s face when he deflects the topic of conversation, but when he looks up, all he sees is a small smile. It’s not really a smirk, or a grin, or even simple joy; it’s more like acknowledgment, or knowing.

“You haven’t changed nearly as much as you think,” Marco replies, and then he starts to laugh, shaking his head.

Jean can’t stop himself as his eyes widen, and he feels his cheeks heat. “You’re an asshole,” he blurts out, staring at Marco in outrage.

That just makes Marco laugh harder, shaking his head as he’s obviously unmoved by Jean’s irritation. “See?”

“See _what_?” Jean demands, staring as if Marco’s lost his mind.

The next words are careful, less bubbling with laughter, as Marco replies, “You still care what I think about you.”

Jean’s mouth clamps shut, and he just stares, not quite sure how to respond to that. It’s not an insult, exactly, but at the same time, it’s not exactly a compliment. He feels frozen to the spot, unsure of how to respond, yet knows a lot depends on his answer that he doesn’t even realize.

It’s been a while, but it feels the same way that battle does, that thing he hates: decisions that hurt others.

So given that today, everything feels like reliving the past, he decides to go with what his 16 year old self would probably say.

“So?”

He shivers a little and feels the snow land in his hair, the slippery slush of tread upon cobblestones under his boots, hears the wind of an oncoming blizzard whistle through the empty street.

And then there’s warmth, and he doesn’t hesitate to push his face into the crook of Marco’s neck and the stiff collar of his jacket. He still smells the same, like pine, probably from the strange little cones he probably still burns during the winter holidays... _“Like we do in Jinae,” he smiles in the flickering candlelight, trying to look brave. “I hope no one minds.” It had smelled so good, no one in the Military Police barracks that first winter had complained about the scented smoke._

“So?” Jean repeats his rhetorical challenge, his voice gravelly now. It’s not tears, but bittersweet intermingling of embarrassment and relief caught in the tenor of his voice.

“Hush up,” Marco whispers as a strong hand finds its way to the back of Jean’s head, and then fingers outspread, combing through his hair.

They stand like that until they hear people’s voices from around the corner. When they part, they just stare at each other with flushed faces; the cold makes Jean’s face ache without Marco’s warmth there.

The chestnuts are retrieved in record time, and they don’t speak again as they hurry back to Jean’s house, handing them over and both pouring themselves generous glasses of brandy.

“This _is_ my favorite glass,” Marco says after they’ve settled at the large, rugged table again, looking over at Jean. “I like these flowers.”

Jean’s mother is busy with the chestnuts, and he makes sure she’s not listening as he makes a decision.

“Hey, Marco?”

“Uh huh?” Marco asks from behind his glass.

“Maybe... maybe this year, I could go to Jinae with you,” Jean offers quietly, clearing his throat brusquely. “Since I know you’ve only invited me about a million times.”

And not once has he taken Marco up on the offer.

“Even if you’re in the Garrison,” Jean adds softly, staring down into his glass, “I’d still want to go, if I could get leave.”

Before Marco can answer, though, Jean’s mother takes a seat next to him at the table and interrupts their conversation. 

“Marco, would you like a roasted chestnut?” 

Jean’s mother’s chair creaks as she moves to get up again, but she’s a little slower than she used to be. He holds out his hand to stop her. “Don’t worry,” he says brusquely, standing quickly to stride over to the woodstove and remove the iron skillet. He deftly uses the spatula to empty them into a bowl.

“Those look good,” Marco remarks politely, smiling a little as Jean puts them down in the center of the table. “Thank you.” 

“They’re Jean’s favorite,” she says, nodding at Jean. “When he was a boy, he used to eat so many he’d get an upset stomach. Actually, he’d steal them when I wasn’t looking...” She shakes her head reprovingly at Jean, as if he’d just committed such an offense in the past few hours, and Jean rolls his eyes.

Marco laughs as he pops a chestnut into his mouth, and then his eyes widen. “Well,” he says from behind his hand, his mouth full, “uh, I guess I can’t blame him.”

“See?” Jean says triumphantly, crossing his arms. “It’s not my fault they’re so good.”

Jean’s mother laughs, her eyes crinkling around the edges.

He realizes he should really come home more often.

“Fire needs more kindling,” Marco says suddenly, rising and setting his chestnut haul onto the rough hewn table. “I’ll do it.”

“Oh, okay.” Jean’s eyebrows raise slightly, since Marco is the guest and even though he knows he was sort of a bratty kid, it’s still firmly ingrained into him that guests don’t do any work.

Then again, Marco probably wouldn’t take no for an answer.

So Jean leans back, pops a chestnut in his mouth, and takes a deep breath, smiling a little; and for the first time, it feels like he’s breathing in the world. The smells all intermingle—the faint scent of vinegar that his mother uses to clean, Marco’s faint but unmistakable pine scent, wood smoke and chestnuts, and somehow, remnants of the clean cold air outside. 

Suddenly, he hears the fire roar up, and he looks over in surprise to see if Marco’s added too much kindling to the woodstove. 

But instead, he spots an envelope stamped with the unmistakable insignia of the Military Police, just it’s tossed into the flames.

Their eyes meet—Jean’s undoubtedly huge as he stares at Marco’s calm, almost expressionless face—and the only sound is the grate of heavy iron as he replaces the circular lid on the stove.

Apparently, Jean’s mother doesn’t notice from where she’s busy covering the bowl of chestnuts with a cloth to keep them warm, and Marco continues as if nothing out of the ordinary has just occurred.

“Are you boys going to some fancy party later?” Jean’s mother asks, her voice somewhat hesitant. 

Marco doesn’t immediately respond, looking over at Jean and waiting for him to field the question.

The answer for every year since they joined the Military Police has been yes, in a way, at least if you were assigned guard duty at those parties. 

Jean has fond memories of dancing with Hitch back in the barracks when they were both drunk enough to like each other before they started to actually get along, albeit in a grudging love-hate way, and smoking packs of fancy cigarettes that had cost an entire paycheck.

Some of it he doesn’t regret; but given the austerity order currently placed on the inhabitants of Wall Rose, compared to the fact that some duke or another will be hosting a large holiday event for the nobility with a few select lower ranking officers from the Military Police who might be lucky enough to sneak some fancy liquor, he can’t quite say yes as readily as he may have before today.

“No,” he says with a resolute clarity that even surprises him, “not this year.”

Maybe not next year; maybe not ever again. And maybe Marco just burned something in the stove that’s changed everything, or perhaps it’s changed nothing at all.

The fire crackles in the woodstove, and Marco turns to look at Jean, his lips curved into a guileless smile.

“Let’s stay out of the snow and sleet for now,” he says, “and toast a new year here.”

“Yeah,” Jean agrees, moving to get the brandy and re-fill their glasses, “a new year sounds good.”

Twilight falls and frost laces delicate patterns across the window panes, curling like the green-stemmed zinnias on a glass, and Jean loses himself in the warmth of shared brandy and earnest smiles.


End file.
